Hors-d'Œuvre

THE DISCIPLE

M. Goubin, M. Bergeret's favorite pupil, came out of the house where his old master was dying. There were too many people in that house. M. Goubin sincerely loved M. Bergeret; behind the spectacles that separated him from the imaginary world, his eyes were filled with tears; he mourned the imminent disappearance of a dear figure, of an ironic and generous spirit, and his grief was selfish, for he regretted the savor of the familiar conversations that had made him taste the pride of being a man.
From the garden, whose dead leaves were profaned by the footsteps of indiscreet visitors, the pack of reporters and idlers assailed him, then dispersed, disappointed, on learning that there was "nothing new."

What an importunate burden glory is! thought M. Goubin. An illustrious man cannot live in peace; his actions are public; the press comments on his joys and sorrows, reveals his loves and, if necessary, ratifies the marriage he has made... An illustrious man cannot die in peace; journalists watch for his last breath, as they watch for the last grimace of the condemned man who is going to lay his head on the guillotine... Tomorrow, they will write things that my old master, fortunately, will not read; for M. Bergeret loves the French language like a mistress whom, all his life, he has richly maintained and sumptuously adorned.

Thus, M. Goubin was ingenious in seeking consolations. He thought that M. Bergeret was ending in beauty, leaving without the stain of a failure a work more durable than bronze; his glory, without being able to equal that of a destructive genius, would reach the level permitted to the amiable and benevolent genius. Thus, having produced marvelous fruits until the very end of his autumn, he could serenely take leave of a world which, by great exception, had neither mistreated nor misunderstood him…

Mr. Goubin, as much by the effect of his myopia as by the virtue of his meditation, did not see Mr. de Terremonde, diocesan architect, and did not respond to the greeting of the prefect Worms-Clavelin; both, anxious to be named in the newspapers, hurried towards Mr. Bergeret's house.

But he looked for the tramp Larkspur and found him in his usual place, on the side of the road. Larkspur was adjusting, with a string, an object which had retained in its upper part the shape of a shoe, and his bare foot, freed, blossomed on the grass, dirty, painful and deformed.

The sight of Larkspur offended Mr. Goubin. The tramp was very old, although he did not know the date of his birth and this ignorance caused continual discussions and insoluble difficulties in his meetings with the gendarmes...
It seemed unfair to Mr. Bergeret's pupil that this old vagabond, odious to the police and useless to the rest of the world, should stand before him, smiling, robust and in good health, while the master was about to die.
And, after having responded to the tramp's greeting, he said to him in a reproachful tone: Do you know, Larkspur, that Mr. Bergeret is very ill?
"That's a great pity," replied Larkspur politely.
Then he looked at his work with satisfaction; the sole, attached to the upper, could once again face the main road.
Mr. Goubin then wanted to try on the old man the effect of a philosophical system whose consoling virtue he forced himself to appreciate.
- We must come to terms with it, he said... Old people must resign themselves to leaving... It's
the law.
- And why is that? asked Pied-d'Alouette, revolted.
And he added:
- One is never old enough to die.

Thus Pied-d'Alouette destroyed in Mr. Goubin a resignation made of an illusion that was too reasonable.
Perhaps it is logical to die after growing old. But then, it is old age that is unjust. And, if an old vagabond does not accept without revolt the necessity of death, how does our spirit not revolt at the idea of ​​losing a being precious among all beings, for this absurd reason that having lived a long time he has lived enough? In truth, one must mourn an old man more than a young man, because in losing him one loses more than promises…

However, M. de Terremonde and Prefect Worms-Clavelin had reappeared at the bend in the road, and their joyful faces made M. Goubin conceive an insane hope.

"There is a photographer," announced the prefect... "We were taken in a group for a newspaper, illustrated." -

G. DE LA FOUCHARDIÈRE.